


EXILE

by This_is_us



Category: Kartik Singh /Aman Tripathi, Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Meetings, Inspired by Music, M/M, Rain, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:55:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26145244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_us/pseuds/This_is_us
Summary: Kartik Singh and Aman Tripathi, living life in Kolkata, as monsoon comes to the city and they recall memories of their ten years of living and loving together.
Relationships: Kartik Singh/Aman Tripathi
Comments: 26
Kudos: 48





	1. As the clouds parted

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever piece of fan fiction. I love being a part of this fandom and I have been planning this forever, finally got the courage to post it here. A huge thank you to @hackedbyawriter for reading this and appreciating it. "EXILE" is basically me imagining KARMAN in my city of Kolkata; it is the most self-indulgent piece of writing ever but I hope y'all have fun reading it.

_The clouds are lowering, again. Water splashes from the streets onto the pavement; last night’s rain mixed with the dredges of the narrow drains and in between the crowded alleyways, faltering bulbs light up the shadowy facades of makeshift shops and plastic sheets weighed down by water and bricks. A cloud of smoke envelops the tea stall on the corner; the kettle is whistling and on this monsoon morning, a group of young men and old men gather around, slipping in and out of its hazy spectrum as traffic shuttles by and a lonely stupor settles in over the city. Rain comes down, hard and fast; then a slow, unrelenting curtain of grey and splashing through ankle-deep water, Kartik walks home. His thoughts, unlike the morning, are not particularly sombre. Admittedly, an early drenching on an unplanned trip to the farmer’s market did not feature on his list of enjoyments but it was his own fault for having waived off Aman’s advice about carrying an umbrella. “ Areh I am going to the market only, I’ll be back before it rains. Tell me if I need to buy you a kaali gobi ?’ Aman had pushed him out of the apartment and had closed the door on his face. In revenge, Kartik had decided to bring him back the worst cauliflower he could find in the entire market. Which had taken him longer than anticipated, hence the drenching._

_But now he was walking home, with all thoughts of revenge erased from his head. In fact, he was thinking of the last time they got to spend a weekend doing nothing and how long it had been. Ever since he had accepted his new job as the creative head of a theatre magazine, Kartik had been spending days and nights holed up in his study working hard at making the magazine a success. Aman would often return from his university to find Kartik lost in between the pages of a Desh or a Anandabazar or a similar vernacular magazine; flipping through its yellowed, dust lined pages and murmuring softly under his breath, while shadows lengthened under the heavy curtains and a fan whirred unceasingly over his head. Some evenings, they would both be in the study together, Kartik on the floor surrounded by his pillows and books, balled up bits of lined paper and the general air of creative frustration and epiphanies; and Aman at his desk, with a stack of exam papers and his reading glasses on. And thus, the hours would pass in comfortable silence and soft music; as the night outside their window lit up and the city grew close._

_Monsoon had arrived to the city. Last night, Kartik had woken up in his sleep to the soft patter of rain hitting the silent street outside their home. The heavy weight of the humid summer had left the room, and instead there was a cool fresh breeze that reminded him of water bogged lanes and museum galleries; his early days in this city that was then foreign to him. When Kartik had escaped to Kolkata with a university offer to study Theatre as his excuse he had not expected to find refuge in this city. He had not known the language, Tagore and Ray were mere words to him and the only theatre he knew came from playing the female characters in school plays. Back then, he was simply trying to escape._

_The city had made him its own. With its crowded streets and hidden alleyways, its haunting music and loud celebrations, lonely evenings spent watching Greek plays at the Academy and Christmas nights on Park Street; Kartik had fallen in love. Every one of the wounded jagged pieces of his soul had fit right into the corners and crevices of this city, that was ancient yet young, shy but outgoing, falling apart at the corners yet held together in culture, music and love. Kartik had found his friends, his family, his life. And he had met Aman._

_“Open the door saale” Kartik pounded the door, trying to hang onto his three shopping bags while simultaneously shouting expletives at his boyfriend. “ Calm down idiot. The power went out, so the bell’s not working.” “Take this bag, and this one too. Put that in the sink, the vegetables need washing. I am going to clean up.” Kartik pressed his lips to Aman’s forehead before rushing to the washroom. “ Have you called, about the power yet ?” “No, it’s only been a half hour. I think there’s some work happening on the road, let’s wait. Did you put the wet clothes in the machine?” “Wet? Nah. They were merely splashed a little bit. Told you, I didn't need that umbrella.” “Sure bro.” “Haww !” Kartik grabbed Aman by the shoulders. “Bhai kyun bola ?” “Stop it Kartik, I need to make breakfast !” Aman exclaims, yet unable to stop laughing at his boyfriends antics. “Maggi, please Aman !! See, it’s raining outside today” Kartik runs to the window and throws it open, letting in a fresh gust of spray, “ and I forgot to pick up bread.” “Fine, but you are chopping the vegetables.” “ I love you janeman.” Kartik catches Aman around the waist and pulls him in for a hug._


	2. Ten Years in our room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting the first two chapters at once, hope y'all enjoy !

_Their veranda is flecked with the monsoon winds, its marble floor slippery under their feet. Outside, it’s a canopy of umbrellas and plastic sheets; commuters rushing through the rain to get on a bus, the leisurely stroll of students with cloth bags and damp cigarettes, the neighbourhood dogs curled up close to the pavements; a veritable mess of mud and slush. On this late morning rain washed Sunday, the memories come flooding back to Kartik; unbidden yet welcome. “Anything in the newspaper ?” Aman places a steaming cup of tea on the stack of books next to Kartik, before wedging his way in beside him on the narrow couch. Involuntarily, Kartik shift to the left, and his arm goes around him; effectively encasing his small frame in a warm Kashmiri shawl. Aman sags against him with a small sigh. “Nothing yaar.” “Then why did you look so solemn ?” “It’s the rains bro, reminded me of everything.” Aman looks up at Kartik enquiringly. “ Good memories ?” “The best. I was thinking of the day I met you.” “Oh.” Aman looks away with his shy smile of befuddlement; as if it still catches him unaware that the very though of him could turn Kartik from a hyper-active, over excited kid to a grown up, domestic man, in love. “It was very much like today, wasn't it ?” “ Yes ! Can you believe it was nearly 10 years ago ?” “Looking at you, I can.” “WHAT ARE YOU INSINUATING AMAN ? DO I LOOK OLD TO YOU ?” Aman can’t help laughing out loud at his boyfriend’s enraged expression. He places a placating hand on his face and strokes his skin lightly with a feather touch. “No, my love. You do not look old. It’s just that you have grown so much in the last 10 years since I first met you. You were always the kindest person I have ever known, but in these years, you have grown past your grievances, and you have been helping so many people in the process. You are strong and resilient, yet you are always open to new people and new experiences. I cannot even imagine being that vulnerable to a world that has betrayed you so many times. Looking at you, I am forever reminded of everything that affected me and made me grow into the person I always wanted to be yet never thought I could actually be. You gave me my life Kartik, and in these 10 years, you have become my life. So yes, looking at you, I do believe that it has been 10 years since we first met.”_

_There is a break in the rains. Late afternoon sunshine struggles weakly through the heavy monsoon skies. Out in the streets, a hawker calls out his wares and the dogs set up a chorus. A rickshaw slides through the water logged street swiftly while trilling it’s bell. The curtains billow outwards in a sudden gust of wind as the fan whirs into life and the lights in the living room turn on. Kartik isn't aware of the tears welling up in his eyes. In the Singh-Tripathi household, it is customary for Kartik to make all the corny, love-sick declarations and for Aman to make sarcastic retorts on all of them. Therefore, Kartik is suddenly speechless; suddenly awestruck in the face of Aman’s heartfelt words. Years pass between them as they sit huddled up on the couch._

_Aman had taken his hand away from Kartik’s face, now he was trying to burrow deep into the shawl and hide the fact that he was a blushing mess. It wasn't like him to speak out loud about his deepest feelings, but there was something in the air today. Something about mystery and love, the ancient emotions that Greek tragedies were made of, that made him feel far removed from this apartment set in the middle of a bustling city. It took him back to the times when there were kings and princes; where love was a luxury and revenge, a duty; and the immortal tales of tragic partnerships that made him shiver in recognition of their potency. It stirred the very depths of his soul and made him want to rule kingdoms or lead armies into battles; but most of all, it made him want to love Kartik, with all the heart and soul of a King. Aman is suddenly caught unawares as Kartik engulfs him in a bear hug, shawl and all. “ I love you so much Aman, there’s a literal pain in my chest that I cannot tell you just how much I do love you.” “You do tell me Kartik, every moment of everyday.”_


	3. Ten Years ( Pt. 1 ) ~ December in the City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys ! This chapter is going to be a short one, just a quick introduction to how Kartik and Aman met, for the very first time, as winter set in on Kolkata. I hope y'all like it !

_EXCERPT FROM AMAN’S DIARY_

_I wondered why I wouldn't fall in love. Quick and easy, like water rolling off your back at the end of a long summer noon. Messy, yes but perfect and short; and everything unpredictable and beautiful and moving. Moving, when you are young and nothing is a constant; and life seems possible, even beautiful in short spurts of happiness. When everyone, and everything around you is a mere kaleidoscope of shifting colours, and scenes; and you are in this living presence; of park benches and club nights; late evening walks across shadowy streets; and all that matters in being there with a person; and in those moments, life happens, as we know it._

_There are no more wars for love. No Paris or Hector; or even Menelaus; in our saga of living and dreaming. Rivers, today, simply straggle through a confusion of people and places; instead of flowing across the lonely earth; and Zenda is simply a name that will be forgotten by the end of this decade. Dust collects on the iron weapons caged in empty museum rooms; meanwhile the world is rushing into a future that I cannot see and I am irrevocably in love with a past I did not live. A glass mosaic is tricky. When the light hits the glass, it is a burning splendour of beauty; but look at it from different angles and you’ll notice a deceptive story. Achilles and Patroclus or Achilles and Briseus. it all ended with Troy; and love, as I would have known it, burned with the last embers of lost cities and forgotten times. Today, you are writing blank verse sonnets in bustling towns while somewhere in my heart I find myself between the pages of unknown epics and tragic fluid love. This is my dilemma, to live or not to live, as we live today in our cold lonely satisfactions. Where all the legends are dead, and all the stories buried under stark sensibilities; and at the end of the day, you are sitting on a sofa watching a sitcom and around you, the memories of our splendid past are silent and faltering._

———————————————————————————————————————————-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Ten years ago, on a dry winter evening in Kolkata.**

Slamming its door shut, Aman got out of the black taxi and stood by the roadside, watching it trundle away into the traffic, amidst the bustling cacophony of a winter evening in Kolkata. There was a dry sting in the air, behind him, a small fire crackled between bits of twigs and garbage collected from the nearby fruit shack; and a group of pavement dwellers hunched around it, garbed in monkey caps and patchy shawls, dealing cards with frayed edges. There was a stir all around him, in the movement of the infant children gurgling on a straw mat by the cracked pavement, in the intelligible chatter of the raggedy boys playing hopscotch, cars with their windows turned up as they slid past him, the sun setting in the distance, over by the majestic marble topped dome of the Victoria Memorial monument and the sky was an unfamiliar golden-blue, with purple streaking away at the corners of the clouds, a vast expanse of infinity hanging just beyond the reach of electric poles and stone terraces as the crowds pushed past beside him and dusk swam down to this city of lost poets and searching souls.

Aman looked down at his watch with a disgruntled sigh. He had just got off the phone, after having an exceedingly frustrating call with his family in Allahabad in which his mother kept trying to convince him to leave his low-paying dead end job in Kolkata and return home to get married. On top of that, his work day had chiefly consisted of him doing “accent classes” and trying to keep his calm while talking to some offensive callers. All he wanted to do was to get back to his one room guesthouse and sleep until his next shift; however, halfway through his cab ride he had had the awkward realisation that he couldn't afford to pay for the full ride home. So now, he was currently stranded in the middle of the main road, searching for the nearest metro station, without having the faintest idea regarding his surroundings; and neither could he read any of the nearby signs because they were all written in the unfamiliar Bengali script. Inwardly he cursed his luck for having ended up in this alien city where every other person on the bus wanted to know exactly where in Allahabad his parents lived and what he planned to do later on in his life.

In the distance, a slow moving crowd had gathered in front of what appeared to be a pair of iron gates. Several large posters lay scattered near the entrance; under the tree, a group of youngsters in saris and kurtas vehemently argued over the government’s recent policies while selling tickets to a medley of people. Beyond the red bricked wall, Aman could see the facade of a red and white building; and in front, a saffron robed ascetic strung his ektara and sang of the ancient myths of our existence and the universe. A crippled dog nosed through the crowd to find scattered tidbits between the cracks of the sidewalk; meanwhile, the sky faded to a murky blue and the sting in the air deepened to a palpable chill.

“ Amader dol-er notun natok, ei ponero minit e suru hocche. FIrst show, tai discount e ticket deowa hocche, Aapni kinben ?” ( Our theatre group is putting up a play which is starting in 15 minutes. We are offering a discount for the first show. Do you want a ticket ?) “Sorry, hum..I don’t speak Bengali.” “No problem ! I didn’t realise you weren’t from here, sorry for that. Our play is starting in 15 minutes, would you like to buy a ticket ?” “Play ? I actually don't know anyone…” “ Here, I will give you one at a discounted price, only for Rs.150. Join that queue over there, the hall will open in a couple of minutes.” Only after the young college student had walked away, did Aman realise that he now had a ticket to watch a play whose name he couldn't read which was supposed to begin in approximately 10 minutes. “Fuck it”, he thought. He could just throw the ticket away and go home, just like he had planned to do. Or, he could try something new; even though every inch of his being screamed at him to remove himself from this crowd of people with whom he had nothing in common. He looked down at his ticket for a moment; a small slip of paper on which was a picture of a man clawing his eyes out while blood rolled down his cheeks in dramatic effect. Around him, the shadows had lengthened. The song of the ascetic had faded away into the white noise of low chattering and the crowd had begun shuffling through the gates. Aman drew his jacket closer around his body and joined them.


	4. Ten Years ( Pt. 2) ~ December in the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a poem that is essentially a translation of a song called "December Er Shohorey" by M.A.D (Mad About Drama). This poem kind of touches on various overwhelming emotions surrounding this city and is relevant to Kartik and Aman's journey in Kolkata. I will link the song below so y'all can go and listen to it !

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys ! I haven't been able to write any chapters because I just moved to a different country by myself and things have been stressful. However I do mean to write many more chapters on this fic, especially now that I am away from the city of my stories and my heart, Kolkata. I literally am writing this at 2 in the morning while I have lectures and seminars in a few hours but I miss Karman and Kolkata so much that I needed to write this to kind of get it all out. Thanks again for reading !

In December's City

\---------------

December in the city,  
Familiar greetings, familiar phones.   
December in the city,  
A series of neon windows.  
December in the city,  
Close friends, closers’ nicotine.  
December’s in the city,  
Love appears like porcelain. 

Glancing askance  
in crowded party halls,  
they don't see your plastered smiles   
as the cheap rum keeps count   
and cries,  
of your squandered dignity and pride. 

They profess, their love for you  
and yet  
they blink, and look away  
tracing their fingertips on glass   
while you   
wash the memories  
away.   
Your pasts,   
they don't know of them;  
those bitter sweater months  
they don't see it, etched in the fogs  
your alias,   
On every decemeber sky.

Unaware,   
they are  
Of the dew that wells   
with the songs of our faded youth  
and unsent messages keep count of your  
reckless homeward calls.

“Heart’s dearest”,  
they have translated thus  
in countless poems   
and songs  
and unlike me  
they haven't set their words  
to the beat   
of your wounded heart. 

They yet don't know   
that you anxiously await,  
someone  
at some bus stand,  
they yet haven't seen  
in the december months  
evening trams  
seek warmth from the cold. 

I know my familiar park street  
will lie drenched in light,  
but a taxi will wait outside  
and in the distance, there’ll be the airport.  
In hand,   
a suitcase filled with blues  
and an unknown city beckons from afar…  
To return,   
is not your way of mind  
and to call,  
is not in mine  
And this city’s history  
will forget and wipe  
your melancholia   
off it’s glassed surface…

But December in the city  
will remain   
to await your call  
with the love of days bygone,  
in the Kolkata, that’s now in the past.  
Decemeber’s city   
still waits   
for you to come back  
with the love of days bygone,  
in the Kolkata, that’s now in the past.

Maybe every winter  
is not followed by a spring…  
A mellow ash pile of dreams,  
yours and mine,  
Kolkata.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December Er Shohorey - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ly7Z0ljOBd4
> 
> ডিসেম্বর এর শহরে  
> চেনা শুভেচ্ছা চেনা সেলফোন,  
> ডিসেম্বর এর শহরে  
> সবই নিয়নের বিজ্ঞাপন,  
> ডিসেম্বর এর শহরে  
> চেনা বন্ধু চেনা নিকোটিন,  
> ডিসেম্বরের শহরে  
> ভালোবাসা যেন পোর্সেলিন।
> 
> তারা জানেনা মুখচোরা পার্টিতে  
> তোর সাজানো হাসির মানে,  
> সস্তার রাম যখন রাখছে হিসেব  
> তোর বেহিসাবি অভিমানের।
> 
> তারা প্রেমিক তোমার তবু মানববোমার  
> মতোই তারা নিস্পলক,  
> তাদের আঙুলে তবু রাখছো আঙ্গুল  
> মুছে দিছো স্মৃতির ফলক।
> 
> তারা জানেনা তোমার অতীতটাকে  
> সেই বিষণ্ণ কার্ডিগান,  
> তারা জানেনা প্রতি ডিসেম্বরে  
> কুয়াশায় লেখো ছদ্মনাম।
> 
> তারা দেখেনি শিশির ভেজা তোর দু'চোখ  
> পুরোনো মহিনের গানে,  
> আর না পাঠানো sms রাখছে হিসেব  
> তোর বেহিসাবি পিছুটানের।
> 
> জানি প্রিয়তমা শব্দের তর্জমা  
> ওরা কবিতায় করেছে অনেক,  
> তবু আমার মতো তোর হৃদয়ক্ষত  
> দিয়ে সাজায়নি শব্দের রেশ।
> 
> তারা জানেনা কারোর অপেক্ষাতে  
> বাসস্টপে তুই ম্রিয়মান,  
> তারা জানেনা প্রতি ডিসেম্বরে  
> উষ্ণতা খোঁজে বিকেলের ট্রাম।
> 
> জানি আলোয় ভিজবে চেনা পার্কস্ট্রিট  
> তবু ট্যাক্সি ধরবে তুমি এয়ারপোর্ট,  
> নিয়ে সুটকেস ভর্তি শুণ্যতা  
> হাতছানি দেয় অন্য শহর..  
> ঘরে ফেরা তোমার অভ্যাসে নেই,  
> আর পিছু ডাকা আমার সিলেবাসে নেই;  
> ফিরে পাওয়া এই শহরের ইতিহাসে নেই,  
> বিষাদ চিহ্ন সানগ্লাসে নেই..  
> ডিসেম্বরের শহর থেকে যায় অপেক্ষায়  
> প্রাক্তন ভালোবাসা নিয়ে, প্রাক্তন কলকাতায়,  
> ডিসেম্বরের শহর থেকে যায় অপেক্ষায়  
> প্রাক্তন ভালোবাসা নিয়ে, প্রাক্তন কলকাতায়,  
> সব শীতের শেষে হয়তো বসন্ত আসেনা,  
> সম্পর্কের ধ্বংসস্তূপ তোমার আমার,  
> কলকাতায় ..


	5. Another Day of Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kartik's reflections after his first eight months of being in Kolkata.

EXCERPT FROM THE DIARY OF KARTIK SINGH

The days here are different. In the humid summer noons, I can find myself walking through the crowded, busy streets without feeling alone. I can go around in circles, and meet myself coming back; maybe in the dark corners of peeling alleyways, sometimes in the fading posters on crumbling walls, almost always in the effervescent slogans painted all over the city in bold reds. And morning comes in a comforting orchestra of street calls; dogs arching up to greet the sun, vegetable carts rolling down the road outside my window, an ever-present clash of boiling kettles and glass cups; and the day passes in a sense of mellow tranquility and my incredulous gratitude to what has brought me here. Though, I will not lie. The fields of my childhood and my unfortunate adolescence still reside in my mind. My days of playing hopscotch around the family courtyard, the burnished gold mornings of Punjab, memories of 18 harvests, 18 years; they still furnish my mid-morning reveries. As the low-hinged, dust lined ceiling fan creaks and groans, sweat rolls down my back and the drone of the professor’s voice fades in my ears; I often see the swelling distances of my father’s wheat fields rise up before my eyes. But then, there’s the memory of a scarlet tinged summer noon; uneven clumps of hair strewn around and a number of alarmed pigeons fluttering up into the blue skies. And in a sudden moment, I am jerked back to my absolute present. A bell’s incessant clanging in the distance, signalling classes ending for the day. A sudden rush of life; excited conversations, exchanging reflections of the day, and in an hour’s time, the courtyard is empty to the waning summer sun and the ancient shadows of trees. I still struggle with the language of this city. My classmates, they tell me; “Bengali is a difficult language to master. The rules are elusive and the words, often have double-meanings. There’s no straight and easy path.” What they haven't told me yet is how beautiful the language is. When I hear it being spoken so easily on the streets, I marvel at its fluid, effortlessly lyrical quality. I often urge my friends to address me only in Bengali. How else will I learn to speak it as they do ? How else will I learn to disappear into the ever-shifting mundane canvas of this city ? The busy, crowded mainroads, the snaking alleyways, billowing smoke from the ramshackle tea-shacks, crowds spilling onto the street from the buses, its mellow summer evenings, neighbours coming together when the electricity is out and the entire ‘para’ is in darkness; I feel like I could fit into this myriad variety of peoples and experiences. I feel as if I would like to live here one day. Live here, as in I could imagine a future here. On one of my many walks through the different parts of the city, I have come across a certain two-storied house in the Northern part of Kolkata. It’s connected to the main road by a narrow lane, however, placed beyond the reach of the common city calls. When I stumbled onto the lane by mistake, I was ready to turn back. I eventually didn’t and that was how I found the house. I have gone back many times since then. There’s an old mosque nearby. Legend has it that the Nawab Siraj-ud-daullah used to visit this mosque when he reigned over Bengal. Often, when I turn back in the late summer noons, the melancholy strains of the evening azzan follows me back to the crowded main road, from where it is lost to the sounds of traffic, and life rushing past.   
It has been eight months since I arrived at this city. It was spring then, the beginning of summer. Now, in November, the days are turning shorter. Meanwhile, I have been reading a lot about winter in the city. Predictably, I am yet to master the Bengali script. However, in College Street, I have managed to find English translations of almost every book I needed to read. Most of them are coursebooks; historical analyses of Greek and Bengali theatre. My classmates have introduced me to other authors as well, names that would have failed to reach me in my father’s fields. Thanks to them, I have found the Academy; where I spend most of my evenings, watching plays in a language that I struggle with, yet love to hear. I think I present a rather strange figure.

I haven't come out to anyone in this city yet. I keep my distance, preferring to exist on the borderlines of everybody’s lives so that they never question my reality. In the past eight months, I have spent every single night alone. In my heart, I keep hoping that I’ll meet someone, someone who I’ll trust enough to come out to. I keep dreaming, of being able to live as openly and freely as I daily long to. And I believe I won’t be spurned here, as I have been earlier. I believe that this city, with it’s myths and tales, it’s loud and elaborate festivals, and it’s diverse people, will open up enough to hold me, and my dreams. Meanwhile, I think I am close to making my first actual friend in this city. It’s one of my classmates; a girl called Devika. We are supposed to be meeting up this weekend to go over our notes for the exams, and I am excited to be spending an evening with someone for a change. I am hoping we manage to become close friends. 

Here’s a song that I have been listening to frequently these days. It makes me eager to experience December in the city; a kind of pre-tragic and post-hysteric eagerness. If that makes any sense. 

ডিসেম্বর এর শহরে  
চেনা শুভেচ্ছা চেনা সেলফোন,  
ডিসেম্বর এর শহরে  
সবই নিয়নের বিজ্ঞাপন  
ডিসেম্বর এর শহরে  
চেনা বন্ধু চেনা নিকোটিন  
ডিসেম্বর এর শহরে  
ভালোবাসা যেন পোর্সেলিন  
তারা জানেনা মুখচোরা পার্টিতে  
তোর সাজানো হাসির মানে  
সস্তার রাম যখন রাখছে হিসেব  
তোর বেহিসাবি অভিমানের  
তারা প্রেমিক তোমার তবু মানববোমার  
মতোই তারা নিস্পলক  
তাদের আঙুলে তবু রাখছো আঙ্গুল  
মুছে দিছো স্মৃতির ফলক  
তারা জানেনা তোমার অতীতটাকে  
সেই বিষণ্ণ কার্ডিগান  
তারা জানেনা প্রতি ডিসেম্বরে  
কুয়াশায় লেখো ছদ্মনাম  
তারা দেখেনি শিশির ভেজা তোর দুচোখ  
পুরোনো মহিনের গানে  
আর না পাঠানো sms রাখছে হিসেব  
তোর বেহিসাবি পিছুটানের  
জানি প্রিয়তমা শব্দের তর্জমা  
ওরা কবিতায় করেছে অনেক  
তবু আমার মতো তোর হৃদয়ক্ষত  
দিয়ে সাজায়নি শব্দের রেশ  
তারা জানেনা কারোর অপেক্ষাতে  
বাসস্টপে তুই ম্রিয়মান  
তারা জানেনা প্রতি ডিসেম্বরে  
উষ্ণতা খোঁজে বিকেলের ট্রাম  
জানি আলোয় ভিজবে চেনা পার্কস্ট্রিট  
তবু ট্যাক্সি ধরবে তুমি এয়ারপোর্ট  
নিয়ে সুটকেস ভর্তি শুণ্যতা  
হাতছানি দেয় অন্য শহর  
ঘরে ফেরা তোমার অভ্যাসে নেই-  
আর পিছু ডাকা আমার সিলেবাসে নেই;  
ফিরে পাওয়া এই শহরের ইতিহাসে নেই  
বিষাদ চিহ্ন সানগ্লাসে নেই….  
ডিসেম্বরের শহর থেকে যায় অপেক্ষায়  
প্রাক্তন ভালোবাসা নিয়ে প্রাক্তন কলকাতায়  
ডিসেম্বরের শহর থেকে যায় অপেক্ষায়  
প্রাক্তন ভালোবাসা নিয়ে প্রাক্তন কলকাতায়  
সব শীতের শেষে হয়তো বসন্ত আসেনা,  
সম্পর্কের ধ্বংসস্তূপ তোমার আমার, কলকাতায় |

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading this and please leave a comment if you like it !


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